


if i had wings, like Noah's dove

by henwens



Series: fare thee well [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Historical References, M/M, Miracles, Witch Hunts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-20 21:18:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19384840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henwens/pseuds/henwens
Summary: It’s 1626, and Aziraphale is standing trial for witchcraft.(After all, Shadwell isn’t the first to accuse him of sorcery.)





	if i had wings, like Noah's dove

**Author's Note:**

> I just couldn’t get over the “frivolous miracles” comment, that Aziraphale was doing so many he got a strongly worded note from above. There's got to be layers there, particularly ones that would make Aziraphale hesitate escaping his own execution! 
> 
> Witchcraft trials are fraught with political and financial motivations, and of course there is the real element of mob fear, in particular the need for a scapegoat after a village tragedy. I don’t want to make light of that history, but do hope to explore it through this! I got a lot of guidance from “A Timeline of Witch Hunts in England,” as well as various other sources to check on the historical accuracy. 
> 
> Title from “Fare Thee Well (Dink's Song)” by Oscar Isaac & Marcus Mumford. Do give it a listen!
> 
> Enjoy!

In the end, it was down to plain and simple bad luck. Aziraphale wasn’t even sure he _believed_ in the concept of luck, what with his own capacity for divine intervention and a strong belief in the Ineffable Plan, but sometimes it was nice to fall back on human concepts.

Even if it were human concepts that had him in this particular spot of trouble. So, he had been trying to alleviate the suffering of a small town by healing the sick. Sometimes he just found himself with a wild itch beneath his skin to _help_ , and not sit idly by while there was suffering in the world. And Crowley had been so distant, lately, something about corrupting a king or some such—well, Aziraphale could at least say Crowley wasn’t sharing the burden of those temptations with him. All for the better.

That’s what he was telling himself as he sponged Oliver Lytton’s forehead off, willing the fever to go down with a soft prayer under his breath. He was making himself useful, here, while Crowley was off doing evil things elsewhere. What he was doing here mattered. There was still balance in this world.

Even when Crowley wasn’t with him.

Oliver’s frantic and feverish gaze had been holding fast on the wooden planks of Aziraphale’s ceiling, but as Aziraphale’s miracle took the sickness over and made him well, his eyes drifted lightly closed. Aziraphale smiled and placed the cloth back in the pitcher of water, and with a wave of his hand and another breathless miracle, the water vanished and the cloth was dry.

Aziraphale looked back at Oliver and found dark eyes holding his gaze.

There was a knock at the door, and then it opened.

“Good Mr. Fell,” the man said, breathless and tripping over himself. “There’s been an accident!”

Yes, Aziraphale thought to himself as the rope was knotted tightly around his neck. This was all down to very, _very_ bad luck.

 

* * *

 

In the end, corrupting a king just wasn’t as fun as it used to be. There was so much more to the political machine, now, and if he were being honest with himself, sometimes Crowley just didn’t understand it at all. He was finding more and more often that what humans came up with on their own was _far_ worse than any sweet tempting Crowley could whisper in their ear.

It was far more fun to do both—the tempting and the salvation—or to watch Aziraphale _fluster_ at the thought of having to do both. Although, the angel had caught on _quite_ quickly, to Crowley’s sheer delight. Yes, there was not a part of him that felt guilty at all about the Arrangement—

Crowley willed his mind to clear. Absolutely he was not guilty, had nothing to be sorry for, he was a _demon_ after all, and what else did Aziraphale _think_ was going to happen when he agreed…

And where was Aziraphale, after all? Sure, Crowley had gotten a little caught up in work, and had let six or seven months slip by a little quickly, but what was eight or nine months— even a year?— when they had lifetimes to spend together?

Crowley bristled when he realized he could not sense Aziraphale in the city at all. _Oh, Hell,_ he thought. He hated when he lost track of Aziraphale. It was quite a headache to track down anyone when they left town, even when supernaturally gifted. When were these humans going to invent a better way of keeping touch?

Besides, Crowley shifted, already realizing with a drop of his heart that he was going to have to shell out money for a horse—or _steal_ one, _you are a demon after all_ —he really did hate when his angel was out of sight. There was no telling what trouble Aziraphale could get into all on his own.

Crowley headed to the nearest racetrack—the nobility were so fond of their little betting games now, Crowley thought fondly—and brushed easily past the sleeping stable boy. No need for a demonic miracle here, Crowley thrilled. With only a brief moment of hesitation, he saddled the horse and slung a lanky leg over, easing the horse out of the stables and onto the quiet streets of the city.

 _No need for a miracle at all,_ he thought, Aziraphale’s face flashing through his thoughts. With the wave of his hand, the stable doors closed behind him, and the stable boy would wake to find a shiny new ha’penny in his pocket.

Crowley didn’t know precisely what direction to head in, but something in him pulled him North. Rather than dwell for a moment on what that could be, he guided his horse onward with a nudge of his heel, and wondered how he could blame Aziraphale for London growing so boring.

 

* * *

 

“There’s been an accident!” The man said, righting himself after neatly crashing through Aziraphale’s doorway. Aziraphale turned away from Oliver, thinking _he didn’t see, he had his eyes closed, humans never understand…_ , and made his way towards the door.

“What happened?”

“The bridge, it collapsed!” The man continued on, “James Norwood and his family were returning from the market, and Simon Cooke and his men were coming back from the fields. They were crossing at the same time, and something must have come loose in the repairs—”

“Where do they stand?” Aziraphale said, and they were already out the door and walking to the scene.  He wasn’t yet sure what he would do, just how much he would help, if he could get away with it—but he had been in this village nearly a year now, and he knew these people.

 _See,_ a voice whispered in the back of his mind. _You shouldn’t get so close to them. It only makes it harder._

“James Norwood and his wife swam to shore, and three of the farmhands sustained minor injuries, but Simon Cooke hit his head on the way down, and didn’t surface until Mullens swam back for him. And then…”

 _Shouldn’t get so close._ Oh, Aziraphale realized, the voice was his own.

“The children?” Azriraphale had to ask. He couldn’t not ask.

“I saw them on the shore. I do not know their state.”

Aziraphale had seen death before, long before he ever saw Death, and knew all of its shades and variations. He knew the angry red of crucifixion, the frustrated blue of the hanged man, the sickly black of illness, the bloated purple of drowning victims. He had seen the cruel brushstrokes of death an infinite number of times, an infinite number of ways. He hadn’t been able to save nearly as many as he would have liked.

They were quickly arriving at the shattered bridge, chunks of stone and course reeds rising from the depths of the river. Aziraphale saw the men clustered around Simon Cooke, his shock of red hair matted against his face— _a shock of red_. He saw James Norwood and his wife, Grace, her blonde hair streaked dark with water, and he saw tears on their faces. And then he saw the children.

The man—Aziraphale did not even remember his name, left his side then, to join the others. This was why Aziraphale had chosen this town. There was no doctor for miles, only the woman who had lived in the cottage before him, a healer on her own. When she had died, Aziraphale took her place seamlessly. That, too, had been a miracle, as in her last moments she prayed that someone would watch over the town she loved so dearly.

This was what Aziraphale was here for, he thought, as he approached the small figures lying in the grass. Usually, Aziraphale felt warmth, like a light was being cast upon him even in the dark. Now, though, he felt cold. The cold wrapped around him like the chill of autumn as he knelt beside the first figure. Without sparing a thought, Aziraphale placed a hand over the boy’s small and delicate chest, feeling the icy water fill every wrong crevice. Just as he had with the pitcher in his home, Aziraphale waved it all away. The boy breathed deeply and sputtered to life.

Aziraphale did the same with the next two, taking care to heal even the nasty gash on the little girl’s forehead, the wound stitching itself shut. As the three children blinked sleepily at Aziraphale, their breath filling the air sweetly, Aziraphale’s skin prickled with warmth. His heart began beating again, as if it had once stopped. Perhaps it had.

The three children stood on shaky feet and embraced each other, then ran to their parents. John and Grace had been turned inward in their grief, but now they sprung apart with shouts of joy, sinking to their knees to be closer to their children.

Aziraphale watched, forgetting himself. He felt the shimmer of warmth descend like a glow.

Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Simon Cooke is dead.”

 

* * *

 

As a demon, Crowley loved the very idea of a sinking feeling. Aziraphale had come across the turn of phrase in a book not too long ago, and Crowley had dwelled for ages on what that feeling might entail.  Was it the feeling that prey got when a predator lurked too close? When a courier was just around the bend, carrying a parcel of bad news? When the farmer looked out and saw the swarm of locusts?

Crowley had reveled in the thought that maybe, his very demonic presence caused _a sinking feeling_ among the humans, and he was the source of the phrase all along.

When he asked Aziraphale, though, the angel had studied him with a level gaze. “I suppose,” he said. “Some humans might feel that way about you.”

Crowley had bristled and walked out, only returning because they had dinner plans that evening. Aziraphale had hardly glanced up from his book when Crowley walked back through the door.

“I’ll have you know,” Crowley stated bluntly. “I’ve just been out causing a lot of sinking feelings all around town. Lots of them. Going to get great reviews down in Hell.”

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale had said. “Then it looks like I have my work cut out for me.”

“Quite right,” Crowley said, as he handed Aziraphale his coat.

Now, riding with only a vague notion of his angel’s whereabouts, Crowley realized just how terrible it was to be on the other side of a sinking feeling.

And although he could push his body to the outer limits, and as much as he hated the stinking animals, he wasn’t about to be cruel to the horse. So, they rested for the night in a copse of trees far from the city.

The horse nickered politely as she began to feast on the green underbrush, Crowley keeping a careful eye. He sat with his back to the strong trunk of a tree, sending out little coils of his aura tentatively.

Over the years, he got used to feeling Aziraphale near. If he wasn’t actively seeking out his aura, it was still _there_ , like a nagging presence in the back of his mind. The only exception had been those early years, when he didn’t yet know what to expect from Aziraphale, when they hadn’t bonded so strongly. And, of course, the feeling blinked out every so often when he and Aziraphale drifted far enough away from each other.

Though, if Crowley were thinking back on it, it had been a while since he had let that happen. He pressed his head back and felt the bark push against his skull. He had been stupid to get so caught up in work, neglecting Aziraphale. It had just suddenly got so hard, the weight of realizing Aziraphale would never feel the same way—

 _There._ Crowley pulled the dark glasses from his face, worried he had been imagining things. No, there had been a glow, a _heavenly_ glow, coming from the horizon to his right. _Aziraphale_.

“Well,” Crowley said, as if there was anyone near him to hear. The horse looked cautiously back at him, sensing the change in his demeanor. “Let’s go grab him before he does anything stupid.”

 _And perhaps I can begin to make up for my own stupidity_ , a small part of him thought. With only a small wince, he sat back upon the saddle and urged the horse on in the direction of the light.

 

* * *

 

 _So_ , Aziraphale reasoned. Perhaps he had been partly to blame.

“I’m sorry, my dear fellow,” he said, brushing the man’s hand off his shoulder. “Let me see what can be done.”

But it really was too late, and short of revealing himself to the entire town, Aziraphale brushed his palm over Simon Cooke’s eyes to close them for good.

By this time, news had spread to the very heart of the town, and people were gathering from all over.

“A tragedy,” someone muttered. “How could this have happened?” Another said. “First the sickness, and now this.”

Aziraphale felt his stomach knot with worry. Even after all the weapons he’d seen mankind create, he knew how dangerous words could be. He knew this even before the Garden. 

“Good people,” the man was addressing the crowd. “I know I have not been long before you, so allow me to introduce myself again. My name is Porter. I am a Serjeant-at-Law for the Crown, and I was dispatched to your town to investigate Mother Mercy, the healing woman who died not a year ago. I had heard rumors, you see, that she was a witch.”

The townspeople broke into fierce whispering, and Aziraphale rose to his feet, casting a swift prayer over Simon Cooke that he might find peace where he was now.

“It is my belief, good people,” the man—Porter—was speaking loudly now. “That Mother Mercy never left this town in death, but that her evil ways live on, corrupting your way of life even now.”

Silence. Then, “Mother Mercy was always kind to us,” a woman spoke up. “She has healed our town of troubles ever since I was a little one.”

“Ah,” Porter seemed hesitant, then refocused his efforts. “But, you see, Mother Mercy was not herself at the end of her life. She turned to the dark one, and forfeited her soul to… darkness!”

“I say,” Aziraphale chuckled at that, and the eyes of the town turned to him. “She was a good and kind woman until death. You have no evidence that she wished evil upon any of her neighbors. In fact, she—”

Well. He couldn’t exactly say that she had called on an angel to watch over them, now could he?

“Evidence?” Porter narrowed his eyes. “Funny that you should speak of it. I have reason to believe that Mother Mercy worked hand in hand with a demon at the end of her life to ensure this town would be punished after her death. A demon that took the form of a sorcerer.” Porter turned his cold eyes on Aziraphale. “Do you sense where I am going with this?”

“Hold on,” this was Georgie Lytton, Oliver’s older brother. “Mr. Fell might be a newcomer, but he’s worked just as hard as Mother Mercy did to heal and protect us. Why, he treated my wife for illness, and even now my brother lies in his care…”

“Your brother,” Porter scoffed, “you don’t know what danger your brother was in tonight. When I brought Mr. Fell news of the accident, I saw fear on your brother’s face, and Mr. Fell holding a hand over him. Who knows what might have happened if I hadn’t stepped in?”

The crowd was growing restless. Georgie glanced nervously at Aziraphale.

“Well, I should like to hear from Ollie…”

“That’s not all,” Porter continued. “When I told him of the accident, Mr. Fell didn’t look surprised in the slightest. He had been expecting to hear the news, because he is the very source of the accident. And those three children,” a finger in the direction of the Norwoods. “Yes, they are healed, as if by magic. But they were not the targets of this man’s rage.”

Aziraphale felt himself step back, not out of fear, but sheer confusion. Surely this man didn’t believe—surely none of them believed—

“And finally,” Porter said, as if reading the final argument of a case. The townspeople had formed a tight circle around them by this point. “When I told him that Mr. Cooke had passed… my good people, you won’t believe what it is I saw… the fundamental proof that the devil has this man’s soul in his pocket!”

“Well,” a voice cried from the crowd. “Spit it out!”

“I saw the devil take a hold of Mr. Fell—his skin _glowed_ bright with it once he had killed Mr. Cooke. His evil deed done, and his skin burned with hellfire!”

A shriek from the crowd, and bodies pressing in, and Aziraphale could only think, _Well, the paperwork for this will be_ quite _embarrassing._

 

* * *

 

It was dawn when Crowley came to the bridge.

“You, there,” he called to a young man sorting through the wreckage, pulling stones out from among the reeds. “What happened here?” He asked when the man got closer, remembering only at the last second to put his shades back on.

The man looked curiously at him, but answered. “A witch brought down the bridge.”

“Oh, right,” Crowley said. Then, “Wait, what did you say?”

“Last night, a witch brought down the bridge on nearly half our town. Killed Simon Cooke. Apparently, it’s what he wanted all along. And here I was, thinking he was quite a nice man.”

The youth bit his lip. “It’s all right, they said, though, because we got him now.”

The puzzle pieces slotted neatly into place in Crowley’s mind, and then, a flash of panic.

“What do you mean you’ve got him?”

“We’re hanging the witch in town square. If you hurry, you might still get to see.”

Crowley pushed his entire being past the man, feeling the world shift around him.

Crowley felt the world rematerialize, and Aziraphale came into view.

 “Does the sorcerer, Mr. Fell,” a man with beady eyes and a bright red face was shouting from his position beside Aziraphale, who was looking quite perplexed with a rope around his neck. “Does the sorcerer have any last words?”

“Well, I have to say—” But that was all that got out before the man shifted back, almost accidentally, and fell against the lever. 

The planks fell away, and Aziraphale disappeared. The crowd screamed.

Crowley had never pulled another person with him before. As Aziraphale was an angel, he knew that it was feasible, and no real harm would come to him. At least, no more harm than an unscheduled discorporation would cause. Still, it seemed that the shock of the whole thing had put Aziraphale very rightly to sleep—or perhaps he just needed the rest.

They were on the outskirts of the town, and Crowley watched his horse from a distance, the man at the bridge stroking her mane as she munched on the reeds of the river. Perhaps he and Aziraphale would walk back. They had time.

Time that Crowley had very nearly lost, he was beginning to realize. He hadn’t realized just why the panic had set in so deeply. Discorporation was not meant to be feared, but he supposed their position on Earth was always tentative, and if Aziraphale went up to heaven…

Then there was a chance he might not come back.

Crowley’s heart felt like a weight in his chest. _Oh,_ he thought. He had very nearly been too late.

As he watched Aziraphale’s chest rise and fall, the construction of breath that they had gotten so used to over the years, and such a _human_ thing, he made a promise. One hand over Aziraphale’s own.

 _I won’t be late again, angel_.

It was a promise he kept, all the way until the end of the world.

 

* * *

 

And then, the world ended.

Crowley watched Aziraphale from across the table. The angel sipped from his glass nonchalantly, still glowing from their victory over Heaven and Hell. Crowley loved the look of him. The way of him.

Crowley loved him.

“Angel,” he said. “I’m…”

He couldn’t speak the words. Aziraphale leveled him with a careful gaze, a smile.

“Did you know,” he said. “That I’m very fond of you, my love?”

Crowley bristled and slunk down in his chair. “That just makes this worse,” he said under his breath.

Aziraphale’s smile faltered. “It may seem silly, after all these years to… to finally admit it, but in light of recent events…”

“No, angel,” Crowley met his gaze. “Aziraphale, you can’t think that I don’t love you back. I do. I really do.”

Aziraphale’s face went pink. “Oh,” he said. “That’s very nice.”

Crowley laughed. “It is. But it makes it harder to have to apologize to you.”

A hesitant look. “Apologize?”

“I wasn’t there when you needed me… at the end of it all. When I almost lost you.” He reached out a hand, and Aziraphale took it immediately. “I’d always been there before.”

Aziraphale’s hand was soft. “Yes, you had.” A thumb stroked over the bridge of his palm. “I suppose I’d always taken that for granted. There was a time when I would… lose myself, I suppose. In the suffering of it all. In wanting to help. I’d make excuses but, I guess I never realized how close I sometimes came to losing everything.” Aziraphale’s expression was resolute. “You always saved me. In more ways than one.”

“Call me selfish,” Crowley said. “Call me anything. Scared, I guess. I never wanted to lose you. It’s… it’s always been you.”

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale’s smile was so radiant it shone through Crowley’s shades. “Call me lucky, then. That you’ve always been there.”

“And I always will be,” Crowley promised, sinking back in his chair with a soft grin. His mind was buzzing happily in Aziraphale’s warm glow.

As their food arrived, Aziraphale let out a sudden, soft chuckle.

Crowley turned to him with a curious gaze, watching him dig into one of his favorite dishes.

“I was just thinking,” Aziraphale said. “That I must have learned quite the nifty magic trick along the way. I can pull a demon out of thin air.”

Crowley groaned, loud enough that the table next to them looked over, before a wave of hands sent them turning their attention back to one another.

“Angel,” he said. “Don’t even get me started.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m so grateful to come back to this fandom, please let me know your thoughts!


End file.
